


Whispered Words

by Idioteque



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Jim drinks whiskey - is that a Fandom cliche?, M/M, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:44:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idioteque/pseuds/Idioteque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He pushed his mouth harder against Jim’s, tongues twisting and teeth clashing. The kiss began to slow and Sherlock moved to speak. </p>
<p>“What is your fantasy?” His voice was deep and demanding. </p>
<p>Jim continued to press kisses to Sherlock’s moving lips, but they became hesitant, his mouth slowing until they both sat motionless, frozen. It felt like a goodbye. Jim didn’t let go of Sherlock, his body tense, his arms aching to feel the warmth of another soul pressed against him. </p>
<p>Jim stayed silent for a moment, gazing blankly into the night behind them. His swollen lips parted and he spoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispered Words

Sherlock wasn’t wearing his watch and Jim never did. So Sherlock, in the absence of other indicators in Jim’s dark room, was subconsciously marking the passage of time with each slow rise and fall of Jim’s chest. 

***

Sherlock had walked slowly through Jim’s flat before he found him. He tried the sitting room first, the room where they spent most of their time. The two worn leather armchairs that they occupied during their animated discussions and comfortable silences faced the large fireplace, where barely warm ash now smouldered steadily. Finding it empty, and glancing into the small kitchen to see that he wasn’t their either, Sherlock turned and walked down the hallway to Jim’s bedroom.   
He stopped outside the door and sighed. He didn’t know which he dreaded more, the idea of not finding Jim in there and having to continue his search outside the flat, or the possibility that he was there; pacing angrily and muttering along with the voices in his head, tearing pages out of books one by one, slumped despondently upon the floor or perhaps merely sitting on the bed waiting for him. In the short amount of time that they had been ‘frequenting each other’s company’, as Mycroft had so diplomatically phrased it, Jim’s bedroom seemed to have become the root and the solution to the frequent cataclysmic wars that broke out between the two men. Sherlock was the more likely of the two to momentarily forget their profound connection in favour of arrogantly attempting to parade his superiority, resulting in arguments that would come close to destroying them both. That wasn’t to say that Jim never did the same, but Jim was different to Sherlock in as many ways as he was the same. Sherlock was steel and diamond, assured of his greatness and almost untouched by anyone who couldn’t match him. He was, as of yet, youthful and undamaged, though that was sure to change soon. Jim was different. Jim was the product of the worst things that can befall a child; a terrible experiment in deprivation that had done nothing but intensify the internal turmoil being wreaked by his intellect a thousand fold. He held nothing but disgust and resent for his tragically brilliant mind, it was the perfect torture device, inescapable and relentless, trapping him forever in a wretched purgatory. Jim veered with alarming unpredictability between deplorable displays of arrogance and truly chilling exhibits of pure self-loathing. Tonight had fallen, albeit not nearly to the extent that it normally did, into the latter category.

Sherlock pushed the door open. He thought, for a moment, that he could see Jim lying on his bed, curled up and sleeping in the shadows, before realising that it was his imagination. He leant against the doorway, the white painted wood framing the dark empty shell of Jim’s room, the low light from the hallway barely penetrating the night inside. Sherlock turned swiftly away, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when such a peaceful night had spiralled into such chaos.

He walked into Jim’s study, flicking on the desk lamp as he went and moved to stare out of the large French windows. He pressed his fingertips against the glass, wondering how hard he would have to push before the pane shattered and crumbled. He tried to isolate his thoughts to the feeling of the cold glass pushing back against his fingers. 

He could only think of Jim. He could be anywhere; shambling through the streets of London in a stupidly expensive suit, or perhaps he was wearing his ‘day clothes’ as Sherlock thought of them, indulging himself in his histrionic intoxication. Let him, Sherlock thought momentarily, before guilt began to prickle at the back of his skull and he apologised to the Jim for his fleeting cruelty. He pressed his forehead to the glass, blinking in an attempt to focus his eyes as he thought he saw movement outside. He realised with a wince that he was looking at Jim sitting on the floor of the balcony in the dark, taking long draughts from a heavy glass tumbler.

Sherlock deliberated for several moments as he watched the back of Jim’s head, which moved only when it tipped back to receive another mouthful of whatever it was he was using to attempt to silence his thoughts. It was probably whiskey, which meant that Jim was going to be nigh on impossible to handle. As ever, the annoyance he felt over Jim’s frequently irrational behaviour was equally matched by the empathy that coursed through him whenever he saw the evidence of Jim’s increasingly unstable mental state. 

He took Jim’s heavy winter coat that was lying over the end of the large wooden desk, and opened the door to the balcony. He braced himself, though he wasn’t sure whether it was against the cold of the autumn night or the inevitable confrontation that was waiting for him. The cold hit him first, spreading icicles down his spine. 

He could only see Jim’s back, hunched over as if he were sitting on the edge of a cliff, staring down into the abyss below. 

“Jim.” He made his voice clear and crisp, in an attempt to pull him out of oblivion. He placed the coat over Jim’s small shoulders, despite the petulant voice inside him still hissing that he should just go back to his own flat and let him freeze.   
Jim looked up at Sherlock, his eyes squinting and unfocused. He didn’t register the coat on his shoulders. 

Sherlock lowered himself to sit beside him. Jim reached out and pressed an icy finger to the bare patch of skin between Sherlock’s trouser leg and the top of his sock. “You’ll get cold,” he murmured.

Sherlock gazed at the lost soul beside him, wondering how on earth he could help.

“What was it, Jim? What made you… why did you do this?” Sherlock said, the words not coming out in anything more than a rough whisper. He wasn’t angry. This didn’t surprise him enough to make him angry. It was another emotion entirely. 

Jim said nothing for a moment, putting his glass down and leaning back on his hands. They were almost grey with cold, the delicate bones and bright blue veins pushed out against his translucent skin, his nails bitten and raw.

“I don’t know why you ask me that. I do exactly what you expect, don’t I? Each time. I ruin our plans.” He almost sang the last sentence, the sound hollow with mania and melancholy.

He twisted his head slowly, as if it was made of lead, and met Sherlock’s fierce eyes. “I ruin everything I touch.”

“Our plans are for us, and us alone, Jim. Nobody else is involved, nobody else can see you - can see us together. Not even Mycroft - the flat isn’t bugged and there are no cameras. I’ve been checking on a regular basis, as have you I imagine. What was it that… changed?” Sherlock knew that even Jim himself couldn’t predict the changes in his state of mind. It was his one weakness. But if he could try and isolate particular triggers perhaps he could try and help Jim find more stability, more tranquillity. He knew several of them already; words and situations would flash red in his mind in warning. 

Vulnerability.

Disappointment.

Loss of control.

Sherlock. 

Jim sat perfectly still, his eyes closed, his breathing slow. 

“Why, Jim?” Sherlock prompted again. He hoped that Jim would talk. The mood that he was in was not one of his silent ones, where he would sit and stare into nothingness for days, even weeks, on end. He would talk. 

“I know how this ends. And I know that you know too. I’ve heard you say it – not out loud, you haven’t dared to say it out loud yet, but I’ve heard it.” A choked giggle escaped his throat. “I don’t even know why I…” He gestured to his head, his hands moving to clutch at his hair. There was a pause as he gathered himself. “I’ve always known, you know. I watched you. I saw you. I knew that you were like me. Or that I was like you… whichever way round it works. I know that we can’t ever… be… something. And the reasons that we can’t are all the same reasons that we could and -” His words were tumbling out quicker and quicker, the hands clutching at his hair were with stark white tension. His stillness was gone, replaced by the air of manic energy that always swirled around him when this mood held him captive. He rocked for a few moments, Sherlock sitting calmly beside him, trying to act as a centre of focus for Jim’s spinning thoughts.   
Jim was now mumbling quietly to himself. Sherlock had to lean forward to catch the murmured words. “It’s the only reason. You’ll never find anyone else. I am the only one – nobody else can give you what I can. Nobody knows you like I do. Nobody ever will. You’ll never feel for anyone else what you feel for - ” He cut himself off, shaking his head almost violently, moving to press the heels of his hands hard against his eyes as if trying to push away the images flashing behind them. 

Sherlock had been wondering when this would rise to the surface. He wondered what exactly Jim was trying to tell him; he spoke in riddles and code and nothing he said was ever to be taken at face value. Even when he was drunk out of his mind and it would be easier to assume that his slurred words had no root in rational thought, every word he uttered should be considered sacred. He wondered whether Jim was just desperately hoping that Sherlock would confirm these thoughts so that he could finally, truly believe them. He needed confirmation – of his deepest fear and his most longed for desire. For what reason? Mused Sherlock. To make peace with the inevitable, perhaps. To know that, when it came to the end, there was nothing to fear, nothing to doubt. That it hadn’t been for nothing. That he wasn’t the only one who had suffered so. 

Jim had known long before he had, that they could only survive when they were opposites engaged in battle. Whilst there were wars still to be fought and games still to be played, they could be together, in the singular way in which Jim and Sherlock were together. But they both knew that they were hurtling towards the final fall. Sherlock rather thought that they wouldn’t want it any other way. Except on nights like this. When Jim was like this.

Jim turned back to face him, the coat slipping from his shoulders. He shifted, lowering himself to lie his head in Sherlock’s lap. His arms wrapped round Sherlock’s waist and he pressed his nose into Sherlock’s navel. Sherlock was shocked to feel the cold of Jim’s cheek through the fabric of his trousers. He was icy.

“Jim, you’re freezing,” Sherlock said, tracing a finger down the shell of Jim’s ear, the skin almost stinging him with cold. “Come inside. We can talk. About anything you want, about this – whatever. I’ll listen. Or we don’t have to talk. We can just…” He trailed off, not knowing how to tell Jim what he really wanted.   
Jim was murmuring softly into Sherlock’s shirt, face pressed into his lean stomach. He shivered at the touch to his ear. He shook his head. “No, no, I have to go.”

“Calm down. You are exactly where you need to be.” He faltered slightly, unsure of how to continue. “With me.” Sherlock wasn’t sure where the sentiment had come from, but as the words drifted through the air and settled gently into their memories, he understood the implications of what he was trying to say.

Sherlock realised that his hands had moved to Jim’s head of their own accord, and he was pressing his warm palms against his neck, his ear, his cheek, soothing him. Jim trembled, the last few mouthfuls of scotch were tipping him over the edge and the world was spinning. He clung to Sherlock, a man dangling from the edge of a cliff. 

He felt Sherlock’s hands in his hair, wanting them to stop. He didn’t want gentle touches, he wished that Sherlock would hit him, hurt him, hurl abuse at him. He deserved nothing. 

He reached up with some effort, pulling himself away from Sherlock’s touches. He wriggled back into a slumped sitting position, leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder, and began to gently comb his fingers through the curls of his hair. He thought about the different colours he could see in it, how much darker it was now than when he first saw him all those years ago, and so much softer than he had ever imagined it would be. He thought about the way the light from the study created a gentle glow around him, illuminating him, making him look soft and warm. It seemed so in contrast to the angular lines and cold colours that daylight painted upon his skin. 

Sherlock was beautiful. So beautiful.

Jim smiled sadly into the dark shadows of Sherlock’s neck.  
“Of all my fantasies, can you guess what my number one is?” He pressed his cold cheek harder against Sherlock’s shoulder, his arm snaked up behind his back, fingers combing gently through the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He felt a shudder ripple down Sherlock’s spine, and smiled again.

“No. I don’t know.” 

Sherlock knew that whatever Jim would tell him would burn like a brand into his mind, never to be forgotten. To be played repeatedly on a loop, crackled and distorted, eating away at him. He would imagine Jim doing it with others – men, women, nameless and faceless bodies, writhing together, over and over again, getting louder and louder until Sherlock would have to make it stop. It would just make it harder in the end. He didn’t want to know, he couldn’t carry that. He shook his head.   
“Jim, I…”

Jim pulled away from Sherlock’s neck. His face, deeply shadowed and weary, looked as though he had carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders for a thousand years. Sherlock had once thought Jim to be nearly invincible, but not for long. He knew now that he was exhausted, unable to cope and out of his depth. He was drunk and lonely, with eyes that somehow held every tragic image he had ever seen within them. Jim was beginning to lose his fight against the world; he was unable to break free from the expectations he held himself to, a prisoner of his own mind. He would create something of beauty that he would craft and hone to the finest detail and assure himself of its perfection, before destroying it before his heart was risked. He didn’t get his hands dirty. He didn’t grow attached.   
There had only been one exception and it would be his ruin and his redemption. 

Jim cringed in what might have been pain at Sherlock’s few words. “Why don’t you ever want to know me?” His voice was quiet; the tones of bewilderment and despair were childlike in their purity. “I’m trying to tell you, I’ve always been trying to tell you but you won’t bite.” His teeth snapped together on the last syllable. “You see what you want to and hear what you want to. It doesn’t work like that, Sherlock.” He took a few deep breaths, focusing on the feel of the twists and tangles of soft hair beneath the pads of his fingers. His voice dropped, low and sorrowful. “You should, you know. Listen. Whilst you still can. I won’t be here for much longer.”

It certainly wasn’t the first time Jim has talked so casually about the end, and as Sherlock sat there in the cold, with Jim’s body pressed against him, he tried to analyse what exactly the thought of him not being here anymore made him feel. Whilst Jim was here, he would have comfort. He knew that however bored he may become, that through the grey fog of tedium that clouded his daily existence, Jim would lay him a path to follow – a path laden with colours and traps and ideas and wonder. And although it hardly seemed to matter on which side of the curtain that path came to an end, Sherlock knew that they had never been destined to follow it to the very end together. 

“Tell me then, “ He said, wanting to calm Jim and keep him close for a little while longer. “What’s your fantasy?” 

“I’ll whisper it… that way when you wake up tomorrow morning you can pretend that I never told you…” Jim slurred softly, placing his hands upon his shoulders and struggling to pull himself up into a sitting position in Sherlock’s lap. He squirmed against him, breath hot against his skin. “Words whispered to lovers in the dark don’t count.”

Sherlock leant forwards to catch Jim’s whispered words and their lips touched. 

The kiss they had shared last night, sitting on the floor of Jim’s sitting room, had been an experiment; to see if one of the most basic human touches could abate the black vortex of desperation that they were spiralling into. It was an experiment in raw instinct. 

But this kiss, this was different. This kiss was a conversation, a sharing of minds. Sherlock could almost hear Jim apologising for threatening to leave him as his mouth pressed and plucked slow kisses from his wet lips. This wasn’t lust; it was something more, something fragile that needed to be protected. Jim’s mouth was telling him things and a searing sadness pierced his soul. He clutched at Jim’s shoulders, pulling him closer, listening hard. 

I’m sorry that I ruin everything I touch. 

I need you. I am going to need you even more. It will never be less. 

It will always be more. 

I try so hard, but I do not want to do it alone anymore. I am so tired. 

More. 

 

Jim kissed Sherlock, lifting his hand to stroke along his jaw. Sherlock sucked in a desperate lungful of air and sighed into his mouth. Jim drank in his air, loving that it had been inside Sherlock’s body. Jim hummed softly as he scraped his teeth across Sherlock’s lower lip and pressed the palm of his right hand over Sherlock’s heart. His other hand slithered down Sherlock’s chest and came to rest around Sherlock’s thigh as he changed the slant of the kiss, clenching his fingers rhythmically into the flesh of Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock was still leaning forwards, feeling drunk just from the taste of the alcohol that saturated Jim’s hot mouth. 

He wanted to pull away, to ground himself from the dizziness that was beginning to take hold of his mind. He pulled his lips away from Jim’s and drew a harsh breath.   
They rested for a moment, eye to eye, rough breath, clutching at each other. 

Sherlock could feel Jim all around him, his hand over his heart, the other now moving up to slide up under his shirt. His hair tickled his nose and his scent sat upon his tongue. He didn’t notice the cold anymore. Dark eyes bore into his, the possession and desperation that he could see there made his stomach clench.

Everything changed. Jim was hard. 

“Think of no one else but me,” Jim rasped, wrapping the hand that had rested over Sherlock’s heart around the back of his neck and pulling him down into another kiss. This time it was savage and harsh, a growl purred in Jim’s throat.  
Sherlock could feel him nipping at his mouth and dragged his teeth across Jim’s in automatic response. He hitched Jim up higher; pulling him closer, their tongues now sliding together, hips rocking, hands clawing and grabbing. 

Sherlock was spinning, falling, grateful for Jim’s painfully tight grasp on the back of his neck, his strong fingers twisted once more into his hair, grounding him to reality and holding him in place. Without the pain to counterbalance the pleasure, all control would be lost. 

He pushed his mouth harder against Jim’s, tongues twisting and teeth clashing. The kiss began to slow and Sherlock moved to speak. 

“What is your fantasy?” His voice was deep and demanding. 

Jim continued to press kisses to Sherlock’s moving lips, but they became hesitant, his mouth slowing until they both sat motionless, frozen. It felt like a goodbye. Jim didn’t let go of Sherlock, his body tense, his arms aching to feel the warmth of another soul pressed against him. 

Jim stayed silent for a moment, gazing blankly into the night behind them. His swollen lips parted and he spoke. 

“My number one fantasy… is you… instigating. You wanting me like I want you. That’s what I want.” It was monotonous and carefully controlled, as if it were a comment about the weather rather than the raw declaration of a lifetime of dark obsession.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Not… not leather or blindfolded, or tying me up?” He didn’t know if it was an attempt at humour. He realised that it was what he had known all along. Of course it would be that, of course it would be something so innocent, so human. 

Jim rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s. His stubble was rough and scratched against Sherlock’s skin. “No, nothing like that. Nothing that simple.” His voice echoed with despair. He sounded so tired. He shifted his mouth closer to Sherlock’s ear, Sherlock’s nose was pressed to the corner of Jim’s jaw and he inhaled deeply. Jim was intoxicating, and Sherlock could still feel him hard against his stomach. The heavy weight of his words sat between them, pushing them apart. 

Jim made a decision. 

His hot breath washed over Sherlock’s neck as he opened his mouth and Sherlock could hear Jim’s thoughts buzzing still, despite the heavy cloud of alcohol numbing his mind.   
“The next kiss you want from me, Sherlock, you’re going to have to take. I can’t give any more.” The faint glow of light emanating through the glass doors of the study was beginning to swim and shimmer before his eyes. He braced himself for the cold. 

He pushed himself back from Sherlock, struggling clumsily to his feet. He backed away from him, and tried to focus upon the dark figure sitting before him.

Sherlock hadn’t moved. He sat still, his shirt and jacked dishevelled, staring at Jim with surprise and apprehension. His lips were parted, and Jim chuckled softly to himself as he recognised the want in Sherlock’s eyes. The same want that he knew lurked in his own. He wanted Sherlock to lunge for him, to drag him back close to him, to soothe him, to scream at him. Confrontation was generally something Jim avoided; he lurked in the shadows, never getting closer than he had to, pulling the strings, coordinating other people’s chaos. But with Sherlock, he wanted the confrontation, he fed off it. They both did; a peaceful existence had never been an option for either man. Something about the way that Sherlock challenged him, made him think, fuelled the fire deep within him, making him want to keep struggling against the tide, making him want to cling to the cliff that little bit longer just in case a hand would reach out and pull him back over the edge. 

“You won’t last ten minutes without trying that again,” Sherlock said. His voice sounded strangely distant, a siren calling to him from the rocks far below.   
Jim resisted the spell, wrapping his arms around his waist, swaying slightly. 

“I’ve lasted years, Sherlock. It’s your turn now.”

He turned and walked unsteadily towards the door, banging knees and elbows against every object he passed and finally pulled his body back through the glass door and into the flat. Jim turned and looked back at Sherlock. Despite everything he had said tonight, his screaming and viciousness, his taunts and his touches, he hoped that Sherlock would follow. He knew that he would. 

Sherlock sat in quiet thought for a moment, before he pushed himself to his feet and followed Jim. 

He listened to him stumble down the hallway and go into his bedroom. He wondered whether he was welcome there right now, but he knew that Jim would always welcome him. With open arms, a genuine smile, a venomous bite.   
He went to Jim’s room, and this time the small crumpled form lying upon the bed wasn’t a figment of his imagination.   
Jim was lying on his back, breathing heavily in through his nose and out through his mouth. 

“Are you going to be sick?”

Jim shook his head. Sherlock reach for Jim’s feet and pulled off his trainers, dropping them with two loud ‘clunks’ onto the wooden floor. 

“Are you sure?”

Jim shook his head again, his mouth staying closed. 

Sherlock sat on the bed beside him, staring at the contractions of Jim’s ribs. After what could have been anything from one minute to a full quarter of an hour, he sighed, stood up again, unbuttoned Jim’s jeans, which felt almost wet with cold and tugged them off with some difficulty, leaving him lying on the bed in his button down shirt and black boxers. 

Jim giggled. 

“I really don’t see anything amusing about this situation, James.”

Jim’s slightly hysterical giggle shook his small frame. His eyes were still closed. 

“It’s just, of all the ways that I’ve imagined you removing my trousers for the first time, I never thought that it would go quite like that.” His giggles subsided and he pressed his lips back together. They were still pink and full from Sherlock’s earlier attentions. Sherlock’s heart thudded. The idea of Jim never kissing him again flashed repeatedly like lightening through his mind, leaving fire, confusion and emptiness in its wake. Sherlock couldn’t decide whether it was the best escape route Jim had ever offered him, or if it was the worst possible outcome of their evening. 

 

He sat back down, staring at the buttons of Jim’s shirt. He knew that he had to warm Jim up, skin-to-skin contact being the best way to do so, but was now unsure as to whether he should continue to undress him. A cold hand brushed against his and lingered for a few seconds. 

“Go on.”

It was half taunt, half open invitation. Sherlock wasn’t going to pass it up. The white skin of Jim’s bare thighs looked so delicious– he wanted more. Although they had shared a bed frequently over the past few weeks, there will still many boundaries to be crossed. Their burgeoning experiments into the physical side of their relationship were fragile, frightening and exquisite. They had yet to do anything more than kiss, and Sherlock was disturbed by the frequency with which his increasingly libidinous mind was occupied entirely by thoughts of Jim. 

He leant over and briskly unbuttoned Jim’s shirt. He tried to manoeuvre it over Jim’s shoulders, but he was deadweight, the alcohol in his system somehow making gravity’s pull on him ten times stronger. Sherlock growled in frustration. 

“This is… this is fucking senseless, Jim. There was no need to drink that much.” His anger was emerging now, he wanted to grab Jim by the shoulders and shake him until he snapped out of it and went back to being calm and in control. But he did know that Jim really was trying. Jim wouldn’t still be here if he didn’t want to try, even if what he was trying to reach for was slowly razing him to the ground.

Jim’s dark eyes opened, gazing at him, inches from his face. 

“You speak of my drinking, but never my thirst,” he mumbled drunkenly, his stare intense. 

Sherlock managed to extricate an arm from the shirt. The free arm clasped him suddenly and pulled him towards Jim’s chest. Sherlock was mildly irritated by the move. He hadn’t had time to have a proper look at Jim’s chest yet, to map it out, to memorise it, to catalogue the colours and the shadows. He wearily obliged the tug of the surprisingly strong arm and rested his head gently on the right side of Jim’s chest. He could feel the thud of his heart and smell the salt on his skin. It was smoother and even paler than he was expecting, and far too cold for someone who burned as brightly as Jim did.

“What is your thirst then? It seems to be unquenchable.”

He lay still in the silence, counting Jim’s breaths and moving along with rise and fall of his chest. Jim’s heart was beating incredibly slowly. 

“It’s you.” 

 

***

And so Sherlock had stayed. Had pulled the other half of Jim’s shirt off, casting hungry eyes over his bare form, eyes lingering on the dark trail disappearing underneath the waistband of his boxers. Had helped Jim crawl under the thick duvet, wrapping him up and keeping him close. Sherlock wasn’t wearing his watch and Jim never did. So Sherlock, in the absence of other indicators in Jim’s dark room, was subconsciously marking the passage of time with each slow rise and fall of Jim’s chest. He didn’t take his eyes off him, watching and thinking, and as the night began to fade away, Sherlock made a decision of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own, I am sure there a lots of them and for that I apologise. Thank you for reading :-)


End file.
